


I’m Just the Words, You Are the Sound

by LadyNogitsune



Series: Salea [2]
Category: Densetsu no Yuusha no Densetsu | The Legend of the Legendary Heroes
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Backstory, Canon Compliant, Cats, Child Soldiers, Crushes, F/F, Family, Female Friendship, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid Fic, LGBTQ Female Character, Magic, Pre-Canon, Royalty, Some Fluff, Some Humor, Some angst, Spies & Secret Agents, Unrequited Crush, Violence, i think, no canon characters I'm sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 12:09:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6005371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNogitsune/pseuds/LadyNogitsune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malyrei Elestres has eyes for little but cats, magic and that which is likely to get her in trouble. Even so, she tries to be a dutiful daughter, a good big sister, and a passably personable crown princess. Lymeia, child of the Guild, admires nothing as much as the art of poison, has an interest in magic only as a useful tool, and avoids interacting with people unless she's been asked to kill them. Malyrei decides they're going to be friends.</p><p>Lymeia goes along with no such thing, is not a child, and does not cause incidents that require the royal physicians' attention. </p><p>(Side-fic/backstory to "Salvation". )</p>
            </blockquote>





	I’m Just the Words, You Are the Sound

**Author's Note:**

> I was hesitant to post this here because of the total lack of canon characters and so I didn't for a long time, buut. The option to upload works as part of a series was just too tempting.
> 
> Fic title is based on the lyrics of "Be Somebody" by Thousand Foot Krutch.

Malyrei is twelve when she meets Lymeia. She's had a bad day: her cat is angry at her for accidentally locking him outside her room for hours the other day and decided to piss in her bed in revenge, _again_. Her arm is still hurting from a botched experiment in countering fire-based spells by attempting to momentarily draw the oxygen from the air in front of her, and she's been banned from the royal library lest she mysteriously fall ill again only to recover miraculously moments later and disappear between bookshelves. Worst of all, she's sitting in a dull room, at an even duller table, waiting for the man to arrive who is supposed to begin teaching her about the poisons a member of the Salean royal family is expected to be versed in.

Malyrei does not care about poisons. She cares about magic – about the complex, artful structures that are its heart, the beauty of the spells they bring forth, and about the rush she feels when creating them. She does not understand nobles who hunger for riches or political power they don't put to good use, anyway, when they could be studying magic instead. Magic is powerful in all the ways that matter – in the only ways that matter. And she desires that power. It is not why she loves magic, but it's why she can devote herself to it and never worry that one day she will wake up and find it's become the only thing she has left, the only thing she was able to hold onto.

She has lost before as a result of her own lacking abilities, and she has sworn she will not let go of anything, anyone, ever again; will not let them be torn from her.

Malrei is greedy – she wants to have her magic, and her loved ones, and their happiness, wants to have everything she cares about, and she's not willing to give anything up. She doesn't know if it's a good quality for the Crown Princess to have. She will admit to possessing it to anyone who asks, though.

In Salea, the art of poison is admired by its practitioners for its subtlety. It's not that she looks down on them, but she has no use for it. She has no use for subtlety.

But she has a use for strength, for that which is outstanding and unexpected, and she has a use for beauty. They all appeal to her individually, but when they are combined, they captivate her – like magic has done, all those years ago. 

So when Garlon enters the room and brings with him a girl her own age, whom she doesn't know and who reminds her of no one she's ever met, who moves like something haughty and silent and deadly – a cat of prey, it crosses her mind –, Malyrei forgets she is in a bad mood.

Garlon doesn't greet her. He isn't one for formalities, and Malyrei likes it. Formalities waste time she could be using to figure out how to better adjust the strength of her current favourite spell. “This is Lymeia, my apprentice,” Garlon says, and that's that. There will be no further explanation from him.

Which is too bad, because Malyrei wasn't aware Garlon had an apprentice, and she wonders if this is a new development or has merely been kept quiet. 

Lymeia does greet her, but there's no feeling in it, no genuine respect, and she certainly does not bow as she says “Your Highness” like other people might say, “I don't care who you are and I'll be content if I never have to speak to you again.”

Malyrei thinks it's rather charming.

*

Malyrei watches Lymeia. They have lessons together, but they're not studying the same material. It is obvious Lymeia has long since mastered the basics Malyrei is only just beginning to wrap her head around.

Malyrei knows that her study partner is Guild. She is Garlon's apprentice, after all, and even without that, too much about the girl screams danger, down to the look in her eyes when she catches Malyrei observing her.

Malyrei tries for a disarming smile, but Lymeia proves immune to it. It's a shame, but nothings she hadn't expected.

From the start it's clear that if Malyrei doesn't make the first move, and doesn't make it a _good_ one, they will remain strangers forever. Unfortunately, Malyrei is no good at small-talk; but then, she doesn't think Lymeia would be a good person to small-talk _at_ , so maybe that's all right. She tries to ask her about the medical uses of Belladonna, but Lymeia just looks at her like she's a particularly ugly sort of grub and drops a book on the subject in her lap. Well, it's a start.

But Malyrei has never been a patient person, and so after a few weeks lacking in notable progress, she decides the situation calls for drastic measures. At the end of an especially dry lesson, she tells Lymeia to wait for her right there, knowing that even though the other girl does not respect her, she acknowledges her status as Crown Princess. And maybe it's an abuse of power, but it's not like fifteen minutes out of her day will be a terrible loss for Lymeia.

Malyrei hurries to her room and back, because she hates wasting people's time almost as much as she hates having her own infringed upon, and then all but drops the furry bundle she's carried from there in her arms on the table in front of her friend-to-be. “This is The Most Noble Duke. You can just call him Duke.”

Confusion flickers across Lymeia's face as she regards the cat who is in turn inspecting her, but when she looks up, her expression is already blank again. “I don't like cats,” is all she says.

Malyrei stares at her. “You don't like _cats_?” She might have to reconsider her opinion of the other girl. How can you not like cats?

She wonders if she's said the last part out loud when Lymeia elaborates a moment later. “I suppose they're convenient for getting rid of mice, but other than that they're not good for much. They just do what they want.”

“But that's almost the best thing about them! They're like cute little people with a healthy ego!”

“Well, I don't like people, either,” Lymeia says.

“Because they just do what they want?”

“Yes,” Lymeia says, ignoring the cat attempting to climb her legs. “It's annoying. May I go now?”

Malyrei huffs. “Fine.” Trying hard not to feel disappointed, she bends down and grabs her cat, who promptly scratches her face. She yelps.

Lymeia pauses in the middle of getting up from her chair. “I suppose this one has sense.” She lets her hand ghost over the top of Duke's head, and the little traitor leans into the touch and purrs. The other girl smirks at Malyrei, then she stands and is gone.

*

A week later, at the end of the lesson, the door opens and a head pokes in. It's a small head with messy brown hair, and Malyrei smiles and jumps up from her chair as soon as she sees it. 

The child takes a hesitant step into the room, then another, and is finally followed by a young man who closes the door behind them and bows. “I'm sorry, Your Highness, he insisted on seeing you.” Malrey remembers the man – sleek dark hair, topaz-brown eyes, delicate features. He has an easy laugh and a few years on her, and he's very pretty.

Malyrei can't for the life of her remember his name. 

So she just smiles politely at him as she walks over – he's not a noble and she's barely ever talked to him; he won't be _offended_ she forgot, though he's been in the palace long enough that he can probably tell just from her not saying anything. It's also embarrassing, because this is one of the people looking after her little brother. She makes a mental note to learn their names again, and this time repeat them to herself more regularly, though she knows she'll probably get distracted by her research again. 

Her smile fills with warmth as she kneels down in front of her brother. “Hey there,” she says. “What's wrong?”

Ecylan looks between Garlon and Lymeia and hesitates. Then he leans forward, and whispers in Malyrei's ear, “Can we play?”

Malyrei bites her lip to keep from laughing – she's not a tactful person, or so she has been told; her attention is tightly in the grip of the things that fascinate her, and she sometimes has a hard time figuring out what issues that seem trivial to her will upset people. But she knows Ecylan, and with how shy he is, he would probably be embarrassed if she laughed at him, even if it's only at how cute he is. Malyrei used to be uncomfortable around children so significantly younger than her, but her little brother has always been easy for her to interact with; probably because he gets even more awkward than her. 

She's still terrible at the responsible older sister thing, though. “Of course we can,” she tells him, grinning. “Do you want me to show you more awesome magic?”

Ecylan nods, grinning back. 

Malyrei takes his hand and stands.

“But,” Ecylan suddenly starts, quietly. “Don't you have to finish your lessons first?”

“We're already done. Besides, poisons are boring.”

Behind her, Lymeia snorts. It's the closest she's ever come to initiating a conversation with Malyrei, and Malyrei blinks and turns around. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, you obviously have something to say. What is it?”

“I was just thinking what you said was rich, coming from someone who enjoys studying _magic_.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Lymeia says, “compared to poisons, magic is hardly interesting.” She smiles, the only way Malyrei has ever seen her smile at people – slow and calculated, with the sole intention of rattling her conversational partner further.

Well, it works. “Excuse me?” Malyrei asks. She makes no attempt to hide her indignation. Did she actually consider befriending this girl? There is no way she wants anything to do with someone who disrespects _magic_.

Lymeia does not seem concerned, and she is most assuredly not repentant. “It's also much less useful,” she adds idly.

Malyrei drops Ecylan's hand and forgets all about him. She stomps over to her study partner and points at her, not even caring that pointing at people is crass and her mother will make her attend all kinds of balls and banquets and etiquette lessons again if she hears about it. “Have you hit your head? Magic is _the best_. You can do _anything_ with it. Poisons aren't any good if you don't want to kill someone.”

“Do you hear that, Master Garlon?” Lymeia asks without taking her eyes off Malyrei. “She thinks poisons are only useful if you want to kill someone. Clearly she's not spared your lectures much attention.”

Malyrei bristles. “Oh, don't go nit-picking you--”

“I told Her Majesty children give me a headache,” Garlon interrupts. He rubs his temples and stands up. “Don't kill each other.” 

And that's the extent of his intervention before he walks past Malyrei and out of the door.

Lymeia stares after him. “Did he just call me a child?” she asks, and actually sounds a little appalled. 

“Well, you are,” Malyrei says smugly, and is happy when stating the simple fact is enough to make Lyemia glower at her. 

“Don't judge others by your own standards, Princess.”

“I'll eat my study books if you're older than fourteen. No, I think you're not even older than me.”

“What an asinine thing to say,” Lymeia tells her. “My age doesn't matter. There are no children in the Guild.”

The pronouncement throws Malyrei, because what kind of reasoning is that? There are children as young as six in the Guild, she remembers that clearly from her lessons – is Lymeia saying they are all grown up, simply because they learn about poisons and spying and... well... killing people?

A sense of wrongness grabs her. She can't put her finger on it, but something about Lymeia suddenly deeply disturbs her. Something about her behaviour, her way of thinking, --

“Really, I don't get your obsession with magic,” Lymeia disrupts her thoughts, air of superiority back in place. “It's a convenient tool when a more sophisticated approach isn't an option, I'll give you that, but most of the time it's just tedious.”

It's Malyrei's time to glare. “Well, maybe you just don't have the talent!”

Lymeia laughs. It's the first time Malyrei hears her laugh, but even so, she's not surprised by the sound. It has little to do with amusement: it's harsh and mocking, like the girl making it. “Tell yourself that, Princess. You don't have the discipline for studying poisons, nor the skill, but I'm nothing so frivolous or pathetic. I'll master whatever's of use to me. You just keep refusing to do anything that doesn't suit your selfish whims.” She smiles again. “Now go and make some pretty sparks to entertain children with, since I doubt you're good for much else. I wonder what Her Majesty was even thinking, taking you i-”

The next moment, Lymeia is on the floor, Malyrei on top of her. Lymeia stares at her in surprise at first, but quickly recovers, and they roll around the gold-threaded carpet, ignoring the shouts of the distressed servant they both had forgotten was there. Lymeia is stronger and more agile, and soon their positions are reversed. Lymeia smirks, and Malyrei grabs a handful of her hair and _pulls_.

Lymeia curses and sits up, and Malyrei is very much pleased with herself. So she makes the mistake of going for the other girl's hair again.

Ten seconds later, she is the one cursing as she holds a hand to her bleeding nose, half-sure it's broken. It's only then that she remembers her little brother, but when she looks up, she finds both him and his caretaker gone – the servant must have wisely ushered Ecylan out of the room soon after this started. Malyrei is thankful, because the kid believes she's awesome and invincible and what kind of big sister lets herself get beaten up in front of her little brother in a fight she herself started?

“You're an _asshole_ ,” Malyrei informs Lymeia, who is staring at nothing in particular, looking all but dazed.

“I got into a _brawl_ ,” she says, like anyone else might say they got drunk in broad daylight and started dancing on other people's tables.

Malyrei thinks her priorities need some reorganizing. “You broke my _nose_.” And if she sounds whiny, that's just the slightly nasal tone of voice she is now stuck with.

Lymeia looks at her and blinks, like she's only now remembering Malyrei exists. “Don't be melodramatic,” she says after a beat. “I didn't hit that hard.”

Malyrei starts to snort, but then stops and winces. “It hurts like hell, and it won't stop bleeding, and I can barely breathe!”

Lymeia rolls her eyes. “Perhaps you should have thought about that before you attacked a trained assassin. Be happy I didn't break your neck.”

“You're an asshole,” Mylrei repeats. “ _Ouch_.”

“Hold it to your nose. You're ruining the carpet.” Lymeia lets go of the cloth and peers at her. “No, can't see your brain leaking out. Unless it's still bleeding five minutes from now, I don't feel obliged to sit here and listen to you whining.”

“My brain leaking out?” Malyrei repeats. “Can that actually happen from an injury like this?” She is mildly disturbed, and very much curious.

“Well, it's unlikely, but from the scene you're making, one has to wonder.”

“You call this a _scene_? What do you do when people give _you_ a bloody nose?”

Lymeia quickly fixes her braid which has become loose thanks to Malyrei's not-so tender attentions. “Work harder on my technique, of course. I know you have combat training – if you get upset at a bloody nose, what do you do when you break a leg, or a rib?” Lymeia sounds like she honestly wants to know.

Malyrei gives her a weird look. “I broke a finger _once_ during sword training, and everyone else made a bigger deal about it than me.”

From the other girl's expression, Malyrei might as well have said she was a flying cat. Finally, Lymeia shakes her head and returns to the original subject. “Is it still bleeding?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Malyrei says. She can feel the blood come through on the other side of the rolled up cloth. “I told you, you broke my nose.”

“I did not,” Lymeia insists with a haughty throw of her head. “You're just being dramatic.”

Malyrei wants to punch _her_ nose in and see if Lymeia'd call that 'just being dramatic', too.

*

“So I was just being dramatic, yes?” 

Lymeia doesn't say anything in reply, but Malyrei swears she sees the other girl wince.

As she ought to. It had taken a profound amount of bleeding before Lymeia took Malyrei's injury seriously enough to inspect it more closely, and an almost feather-light touch resulting in an uncomfortable crunching sound in addition to a sharp hiss of pain before the other girl deigned to trouble herself with a diagnostic spell

Malyrei could have told her the result ten minutes earlier.

Actually, she _had_ , and she's not going to let the other girl forget about it. 

But honestly, right then, she just wants to go to bed. Her whole face hurts, which by no means is made better by her chronic inability to keep her mouth shut, and there are a good half a dozen royal physicians hurrying about, taking turns making her feel like her head's about to explode – or examining the injury, as they call it. There's little prodding involved, thankfully, but a lot of noise and hand-waving, as they can't agree how they should proceed and every single one of them is very intent on having his – or, in two cases, her – judgement in the matter heard. One argues that they should use magic to fix the injury, which Malyrei thinks is a sensible idea, but another points out that this is not the speciality of anyone present. Everyone is very concerned about everything that could, hypothetically, possibly, go wrong.

If Malyrei can't have her bed, she at least wants her mother. Because her mother makes everything better – she's great like that –, but more specifically, because the royal physicians would never dare behave like this in her presence. Oh, sure, they've been overcautious before, but not like this. It would typically cost them their careers to bicker among each other so openly, and well, Malyrei guesses it helps that usually their responsibility is not quite so big. This is the first time Malyrei has gotten hurt while her mother is absent not just from the palace, but the whole city. In the unlikely event that there _are_ any complications with the injury, the healers will have to proceed without the Queen's approval, which Malyrei knows has during her grandfather's reign cost one of them his head. Were such an outcome a little less improbable presently, and were she in a lot less pain, Malyrei would have sympathy for their predicament.

As it is, she wouldn't mind if they all dropped dead _right now_.

They get louder and louder, until Malyrei wonders if there is any hope she'll pass out if her headache gets bad enough.

She barely manages to turn her head to look at the door when it opens, and she certainly hadn't noticed Lymeia leaving the room in the first place. The other girl walks over to her and hands her a wrapped-up cloth, ignoring the physicians and their heated debate. 

Malyrei closes her hand around it, more curious than wary, though she keeps her expression sceptical out of principle, even if it makes her nose hurt more. She's pleasantly surprised when cold immediately seeps into her hand, and gratefully lifts the ice to the injury. She wonders, idly, if Lymeia has conjured it or gotten it from somewhere manually – like the kitchens. Malyrei's stomach growls as her mind wanders to honey-glazed beef with chestnuts and stuffed peppers.

If she ends up missing dinner because of this, she'll get into another fight before the day is over. Whether with the original cause of her troubles or those who seem determined to make them worse remains to be seen.

“You should take something for pain-relief,” Lymeia says. “If you still haven't.” Malyrei wonders if she knows how much of an insult it is towards the royal physicians that she acts like they aren't even in the room.

Probably. Lymeia seems pretty familiar with etiquette and the significance of rank. She just doesn't seem to particularly care.

Malyrei tries very hard to mentally kick the part of herself into submission that still wants to like the other girl.

She would have succeeded, too, if the stupid healers hadn't chosen that moment to get all up into her business and _ruin it_. “Don't you think you've already done enough damage?” one of them asks Lymeia. It's one of the two women – Venryn, or Vendryn, or something similar, anyway. Malyrei is sure it started with 'Ven' and ended with 'yn'. “You should leave and let the Princess rest.”

It's funny that the statement irks Malyrei so much, because it's not even untrue. They all should just get out and let her rest.

But the physicians aren't going to any time soon, and the ice is helping, and taking some pain-relieving herbs is not far down from sleeping and eating on the list of things she feels like doing. Lymeia is clearly full of horseshit, but to claim she's presently the most unhelpful person in the room would be ridiculous.

Lymeia herself seems unfazed by the healer's criticism. “The Princess will hardly be able to rest while you keep chattering among yourselves. I'll leave soon enough.”

The royal physicians frown. “Where is Garlon?” Filendres asks. “He should come get his pupil.”

Filendres is the physician with the most general knowledge in medicine of those present – and if rumour is to be believed, in the entire country. But Malyrei knows his name mainly because from everyone in this room, he's been around the longest. In the palace, but also in general: his hair is grey and getting thinner by the month, and Malyrei used to think he was interesting because even before that, he wore it very short, not at all befitting his high age and rank. It was a great disappointment to learn that despite this, he's not very fun and almost as bad a sticker to the rules as most nobles, though unlike half the royal physicians, he actually likes her and sometimes brings her sweets from his wife's shop. 

His wife sounds more fun than him. She's a former merchant who after their second child married Filendres for social status, while he wanted to share in her wealth. Then instead of becoming a courtier as everyone expected, she settled down and opened a bakery. Malyrei hears it was the talk of the city for months, and she wonders if that was the point – or part of it, anyway. From what Filandres has told Malyrei about his wife, it's a definite possibility. So Malyrei likes him all right, and she really wants to meet his wife one day, but she doesn't like how he talks about Lymeia like she's... well, Malyrei isn't sure. But you usually _ask_ people to leave, don't you? Even if someone already did and they refused once, and really, no one's _asked_ Lymeia, precisely. 

Either way, Lymeia isn't two years old and Garlon isn't her nursemaid. Malyrei thinks it would have made more sense – and been less rude – to throw her out.

If Lymeia thinks so, too, she doesn't show it, acting instead like she hasn't heard the old physician. “Her Majesty should be back in the city in a few days, shouldn't she?” she asks Malyrei. “Perhaps her personal healers can still take care of it with magic then.”

Two of the royal physicians who've stayed behind at the palace know magic, but one – the woman whose name Malyrei isn't _quite_ sure about – has studied its medical applications only very roughly, with a focus on the battlefield, and the other... well, Malyrei has no idea, actually, but he probably doesn't use it to fix broken noses often.

Maybe _she_ should have paid more attention to this branch of magic. Though she's not sure trying to get rid of your own ailments with complex magic is usually a good idea, particularly without some years of intent study. Probably not.

It'd be so _interesting_ to try, though...

“Maybe,” she replies to Lymeia's not-quite-question.

“Are you ignoring us?” Deleres asks, sounding quite indignant. He's one of the two youngest physicians, and Malyrei only knows _his_ name to be better able to avoid him, and because he gets _very_ offended when it slips her mind.

Lymeia barely glances at him. “I thought you were going to get my teacher.” She doesn't sound like she cares one way or the other.

“Well,” Deleres says, fumbling. “He probably wouldn't appreciate us encroaching on his time...”

“Probably,” Lymeia agrees, and smiles. Like Lymeia is most likely doing, Malyrei pictures Garlon's reaction to being disturbed over something like this, and shudders instead.

“Well, you should go!” Deleres exclaims. “It's the respectful thing to do.”

Very slowly, Lymeia tilts her head to one side. “You think I did this,” she waves a hand in Malyrei's direction, “to be respectful?” 

And it's a bit of a paradox, because really, it's a very polite way of asking someone if they're stupid.

Deleres doesn't seem to think so. “This is why the Guild needs to stay on their side of things,” he says with a huff. “Cultured people don't behave in such a manner.”

“I'm actually sorry, you know,” Lymeia informs her. “That I sent for a healer.”

“It's all right,” Malyrei says.

“This is outrageous!” Deleres declares, and turns to his younger... brother? Cousin? Well, one of the two, anyway. “Ivares, please inform the servants to take her away. She's got no breeding!”

And it's not that she's particularly fond of Lymeia, what with her nose still making her whole head throb, but Malyrei thinks this is getting out of line. She also wonders if this is what he says of _her_ when there's no one around who might disagree. 

She pushes down a sudden wave of anxiety and leans forward, a hand half-covering her mouth as if she's about to tell Lymeia a grave secret. “He thinks you're a cat,” she says, her voice just low enough that some people might wonder if she _had_ meant for the physicians not to hear.

Lymeia looks at her, and something in her posture changes – eases, Malyrei realizes. “Does your cat have breeding?” the other girl asks, mimicking Malyrei's volume and tone of voice.

Malyrei actually thinks about it. “I don't know. But the horses in the royal stables do.”

Lymeia turns to the physicians and asks, very seriously, “Should I get you a horse?”

And it's not even that funny, really, but the healers just _stare_ at her – at both of them –, and Malyrei bursts into laughter.

Starts to, anyway. Her nose quickly tells her that's not a good idea, and she reins in her amusement with difficulty. 

Lymeia, meanwhile, hasn't twitched, managing to look for all the world like it was an honest question and she's earnestly waiting for the answer so that she might hurry off and switch places with a noble steed.

“Now, now,” Filendres interrupts. “Why don't we go and leave the children be? I think we all agree that given some times, this should heal on its own, and clearly it was an accident. We can continue our discussion in private and have the appropriate herbs sent to Her Highness when we've come to an agreement. Since she has her... companion to watch over her, we'll know if there's any further need for us.”

For a moment both Lymeia and Deleres look about to protest, and most vehemently at that, but then the young healer checks the faces of his colleagues and snaps his mouth shut. Lymeia, meanwhile, after an instant glances at Malyrei with a contemplative gaze that makes Malyrei feel uncomfortably like she's in the middle of a test whose subject is unknown to her.

But apparently she passes, because in the end Lymeia crosses her arms and says nothing.

“I'll also send a servant to keep an eye on the injury,” the woman who's first chided Lymeia says. “Just to be safe.” Her tone makes it clear there's no 'just' to it.

“Thank you, Verestyn,” Filendres says.

Oh, Malyrei thinks, so that was her name. 

Well.

Close enough.

The royal physicians leave, discussing on the way out who of them should take the first turn staying close to Malyrei's chambers. Malyrei is just glad to finally get some peace and an opportunity to sleep.

She's not sure what she thinks about having Lymeia there to make sure her brain doesn't leak out or whatever there is to keep an eye out for, but she's at least not worried about the other girl keeping her up and making her headache worse by talking on and on. 

There's not much else she's concerned about, right then.


End file.
